so i absolutely dont have permission to do this...we will see if zozo himself appreciates the gesture or quietly pulls the plug...
here goes ...
more from zozo, daniel's adventures in south america. since traveling in senegal with him and thinking every single hour ought to be a snapshot worthy of the "are you out of your mind sister???" question, i feel at liberty to share his leger's legends (legendary for us, quotidien for the other 90% of the planet)
it's a scrolling doozy if you dont feel like a read, but i refuse to edit since the world already feels far too abbreviated for my taste
Uyuni...not too far away from San Vicente, where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their untimely end at the hands of the Bolivian army, we waked through town on our way to the bus station. It wasn’t much of a station but an agency where a particular bus pulls up to load up raw meat, sacks of potatoes, locals, a couple gringos, and whatever baggage they have. As I helped pass up our bags to the roof where they were packed under a tarp I intercepted a piece of carcass that was headed for the gutter. We were told not to eat the meat in Bolivia and I was beginning to understand why- well, as long as it was cooked enough we still ate it...
It is always one of the best parts of travel when you can imagine being in a place as it was one hundred years ago. The Wild West that Butch and the Kid knew seems to be more eternal in this part of the world. Although there are obvious advancements in technology and drastic changes from the last hundred years all around us, there are some simple things like clothes and food and language that have remained somewhat the same. The women still wear the traditional bright and colorful fabrics of Bolivia. Some of the rainbow colored shawls carried a baby straddled on the mother’s back. The women appeared to be very stout, but it was often the layers of the ruffled dress, shawl, and knit sweater they wore even in the desert sun that made them look so broad. And almost every woman of age wore a derby hat with two long black braids falling to the lower-back, tied together with a ribbon at the ends.
The men, who were the most likely members of the community to make contact with
the outside world away from the house or the farm, wore less traditional clothing, yet the knit caps, the sandals, and the vests hadn’t been so contaminated by foreign machine-made fashions. Bolivia takes great pride in hand-woven cloth- weaving is one of the remarkable customs which has survived since Pre-Colombian times and with good reason considering the country’s impoverished state. Bolivia has been compared to that of a donkey whose saddle is burdened with gold, silver, and other metals. As we saw on the high-desert road coming into the country the mountains are colored with a wealth of natural metals and minerals. Although, once we got to Uyuni we saw the Bolivian donkey in operation. Things go slow down here and most of the country lives outside of the Information Age, clinging to the fading age of manual labor and self-sufficient farming. Hey, whatever puts food on the table, right? and as long as there is a cold beer to be had I will happily keep feeding the donkey...
We left Uyuni the day after we arrived and headed to Potosí by none other than a bumpy dirt road. There is a limited amount of asphalt in the country connecting the principle cities of La Paz, Cochabamba, Santa Cruz, and Sucre, but it isn’t from a lack of rocks rather a lack of money. Don’t get me wrong, there are people in this country with lots of dinero, but they couldn’t fathom sharing it with their destitute country...and as you might have guessed, those people live in the cities connected by asphalt. The weakness of the country’s economic and political infrastructure has its roots in the ruthless and despicable extraction of natural resources from the Spanish for hundreds of years. We saw this carnage firsthand in Potosí.
Potosí was the location of the largest silver deposit on the planet and it didn't take the Spaniards long to sniff it out in the mid-1500's. Pure veins of silver ran deep into the mountain of Cerro Rico and the Spaniards brought millions of African slaves to work in the mines. However the Africans proved to be too large for the small mines and it was too cold for them to work- sadly there are no African descendents in Potosí today because all of them perished from the high-desert conditions. So the resourceful Spaniards turned to their other labor force, the indigenous population. At one point Potosí was the largest city in the Americas, even larger than Paris. Today it is still large, yet somewhat unchanged. The same colonial buildings grace the cobblestone streets and unlike Paris it doesn't have skyscrapers...and the people of Potosí still work the mines extracting what little there is left in the honeycombed mountain. Life in Potosí is rough and at 4,080 meters (=12,000 ft.) it's not only the highest city in the world, but hard as hell to breathe- my sea-level lungs didn't appreciate the alttitude, but all of the altiplano in Bolivia is at a similar height.
As we entered the city a thick grey river flowed downhill from a rusty old building. Crude metals still being collected in Cerro Rico are separated from the earth and then packed off to some other country for smelting because Bolivia doesn't even have its own smelting plant although it has untold fortunes in raw mountain metal. We stumbled upon a superb little residencia while we were looking for another because people in Bolivia tend to give you directions out of the kindness of their heart even if they don't know where it is. Good things always happen in the hands of chance. We met up with some raucous Ausi's and a Kiwi and played dueling guitars in the town plaza until the wee hours drinking cheap hooch from a box. Summer and I then retired to our nest perched above all the other red-tiled roofs with splendid views of the town and the mighty Cerro Rico.
Of course no trip to Potosí would be complete without an excursion deep into the belly of the mountain to see the miners in action, chipping away at rock, and blowing up dynamite. Tour companies in town run excursions into the mines and you have to sign a paper saying that if I die then I won't hold the company responsible. After such a grave document our tour was starting to take form. We first were outfitted in yellow jumpsuits, rubber booties, and a hardhat with a headlamp. Then we were taken to the miners' market to purchase gifts for the miners: coca leaves, cigarettes, soda, dynamite, lamp fuel, and pure rubbing alcohol that the miners take swigs of because they believe that by drinking pure alcohol they will find pure metals.
Our janky old Japanese school bus inched its way up the narrow road to the entrance of the mine. With our gifts in hand and our guides in front our group of seven entered the mouth of the mine just behind the miners going down to work for the day. Each miner had a cheek bulging full of coca leaves because they help filter the natural arsenic and asbestos in the air- I stuffed in as much coca as I could manage and it still didn't look like the mound these miners had in their mouths. The average life span of a miner after he enters the mine is about ten years- some of the miners' helpers are just kids of 8 and 10 years old. You have to believe that life is a serious bitch in this neck of the world or people wouldn't still have to subjugate themselves to the same torture and natural poisons their ancenstors endured hundreds of years ago as slaves.
The first passage we went through was all cobblestone built by African slaves. Then the cheap broken support beams built by the local miners, reinforced over and over with limbs of eucalyptus, protected us from then on from cave-ins.
There was a little museum inside the mine which was a little cave with lightbulbs and diagrams of the history of the mine, plus a clay figure of el Tio- he is the proprietor of the mine, modeled after the likes of Satan, and all the miners bring him offerings of coca leaves and cigarettes to please him and give them luck in return. After the "museum" we continued deeper into the mountain...the passage slowly got smaller to where we had to stoop and the air slowly grew hotter and heavier on the lungs. It was the true claustrophobic test: small, hot, dark, dangerous, and even poisonous. We came to a spot where you could no longer stand up and stopped for a rest. Summer asked our guide Pedro if it was going to get any smaller and hotter because it was getting uncomfortable and, for lack of a better word, sketchy. Pedro kind of laughed, he said "yeah, we are going to go down two more levels, the air will get hotter, and we will be crawling like babies on our hands and knees." Well, that more than answered Summer's question so she decided to head out while we continued down. I was a little nervous because in my morning haste I had forgotten my asthma inhaler and the stuffy air was a definite GO for some weezing. I felt better that the Dutch guy next to me also had asthma and didn't have an inhaler...anyhoo, I pressed on.
The second level was the hardest. We crawled through the smallest of spaces with crystals of arsenic and asbestos on all sides and dust welling up in the air. The passage was about as large as my body. It was just like being in the tight crack in the earth that it was, if you can imagine, and without a proper light it was darker than black down there. No time to stop and think about how ludicrous the situation was- just keep going down through little carved holes, around bends, to a shaky old ladder with a missing rung that brought us to the third level. The level where all the action is.
We still couldn't stand up at that point, but it was a little better in cerain spots...better than crawling. The group walked along the poorly maintained rails where the miners ran the raw minerals out of the mine and then brought the empty carts back to the wall. Ducts of high-pressure air ran along the ceiling with exposed wires of live electricity running beside. "Don't touch the wires." said Pedro as he motioned with a jolting gesture. A rumbling came and the guides yelled for everyone to get to the sides of the rails. Soon four absolutely filthy and sweating men came running with a cart full of rocks. Pedro grabbed a rock from the cart as they weezed by. He split the rock and showed us in light of his lamp the sparkling raw zinc- Imagine six gringos in yellow jump suits and hardhats down in the belly of the mountain flashing photos at these poor men scraping the walls of their tomb. It didn't sit too well with me and it didn't seem right that tourist should be down there taking pictures- it didn't seem right that any human being should be allowed to go into these mines let alone fragile foreigners with sterilized immune systems, shampooed hair, and clean underwear. Where the hell did we go and why did we go there?
I guess that sometimes we seek out the sad things in life to remind us not only that hardships in this world still exist and are very real, but that we in prosperous countries have so much...so much. The group walked a little way more in the third level until we came to a fork in the road and it was there that we stopped and gave out our gifts to the passing miners. The miners were no doubt thankful for anything that we could give them and this is why they don't mind the flashing cameras as they pass. We didn't actually see them working on the wall because it was too dangerous if you could imagine it getting worse than it already was. After about two hours in the mine we headed back. I was unfortunately at the end of the group and had to wait in the dark for everyone to crawl back up through the tunnels, winding back to the first level. Once we got closer to the mine entrance the air grew frigid and that was the only time my asthma acted up, but not too bad.
We emerged from the mine absolutely covered in dirt and grime. Summer was waiting for us outside. I think she did the right thing by coming out early because if I had known just how crazy it was in the mine, just how small and tight the mines were, just how hot the air was to breathe, not to mention the arsenic and asbestos, and just how faulty the scaffolds were in the mine, I would never have gone. It was a test of my patience and ability to cope with tightest of spots where you can't get out even if you wanted, and you don't know how safe it is and how far you are going- you just have to have faith that eventually you will get back outside...
It was one of the grandest lessons in the perplexities of life on Earth. No one should have to live life that way, but they do and there are more of them than there are of us on this little planet. It also makes you marvel at the audacity of the Spaniards to come to a foreign land and just take over while raping women, land, and culture. Those are scars that will never fully heal. Colonial treachery runs deep into the political and social fabric of Latin America.
As if we hadn't had enough schooling at the mines we decided to go the Moneda Museum. A building that houses an old colonial mint, old living quarters, and a prison on the top floor made for rebellious slaves. We saw firsthand the original equipment and rudamentary technology used by the Spanish to form bars of silver into thin sheets for pounding into coins. Four gigantic cogged wheels made of iron and wood still bound with leather as hard as stone were put into motion from a harnessed mule one floor below- as they turned they would squeeze the different sized bars of silver into a thinner piece, until at last the slab was thin enough to hammer into a coin. One room exhibited all the different types of coins made in Bolivia during the colonial years. There were even worn footprints in the wooden floor from where African slaves had stood working in the same place hammering coins for God-knows-how-long. The museum was one of the finest and most interesting museums I had ever seen in my life. It was probably the first time I had felt rushed in a museum- there was silver crafts, weights and scales, locks and safes, religious regalia, rocks and minerals, and walls of black suit from early silver smelting. It was amazing to see the process from a raw material to a finished product: silver from deep within Cerro Rico turned into a royal piece of eight (or Spanish currency) to be used in Europe. The amount of silver found in Potosí tripled the amount of silver present in Europe
at that time.
After our exhausting day of mining our brains we ate one last lentil burger at the great Kuala Kafe in Potosí, said goodbye to our friends from Down Under, and
got a night bus to Cochabamba...
Mi Amigo Daniel Zazueta is on another whirl-wind tour (the last time was truly global. he stayed with me in Paris for a weekend sandwiched between Brazil and Senegal where we'd meet again)
anyhow, this is part of his tale. i like picturing him wandering about..... either you know him or want a little piece of bolivia or skip it.
**This is a long one folks. Take it slow when you have some time to read
it...**
San Pedro de Atacama...one last day before heading to Bolivia overland and I was sick as a perrito, te digo. No time to be sick really, there was too much to do before we left the oasis. Not only did preparations have to made and provisions bought for the three day journey through the Altiplano (high plateau) desert of southern Bolivia, but we had tickets to the archaeological museum in town and wanted to visit the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon) for sunset before leaving.
There I was laid out, shivering in a feverish state all morning and into the noontime. Summer rented a bike and made the most of the day since I was a temporary corpse for the time being. Slowly, with a little sprite and bread, I dragged my weary-ass into the street in search of some fruit- it seemed to be the only thing I would be able to hold down. And like I said before irony is never far away- the only place I could find a bowl of fruit was none other that at the very place that made me sick. Of course I didn't hesitate to tell them that I had a Pow Wow around the toilet bowl that morning due to their steak, and of course they told me I should have asked them to cook it some more even though I had asked for it bien cocido...Well done indeed.
I met up with my bicycle mama in the street and we went to check out the mummies and artifacts in the surprisingly impressive archaeological museum chalk full of pots, arrowheads, fabrics, well-preserved mummies in the fetul position, and rows of decorated wooden pans, spoons, and straws used for the injestion of hallucinogenic powders. I held up well at the museum, thank the mountain gods they had nice bathrooms. We ran around and bought water, snacks, and toilet paper for the upcoming journey. Although still weak I really wanted to see the famed Valle de la Luna (one of three in South America). All the group tours left earlier in the afternoon while we were busy preparing for the road, but we were fortunate enough to organize a cheap private tour through crazy Pablo, a Chilean who had lived in San Francisco for 25 years and who worked for Pamela Tours, the company taking us to Bolivia. The Moon Valley tour was only genuine things that Pablo did for us because as you will soon read the rest of what he told us for the most part was a pack of lies.
Our Lunar guide was a slick guy just out of the shower with slacks and Sunday shoes on, not really prepared for a dusty trip to the desert dunes. We left in his Toyota and arrived at the badland sites either before or after the hoardes of tourists, leaving us to explore as we wished. Strata of salt sprinkled rocks tipped every which way by the swaying geologic tables- wind erosion sculpted forms of rock left to stand solitary in the desert. From afar sunlight glinted off shiny objects thought to be glass left by some reckless local, but closer up they were actually large crystals of salt with the size and appearance of quartz. I licked it just to make sure...
With our guide in tow we climbed a high dune and precariously walked along its knife edge with sheer drops of sand on either side until we came to a cliff of rock on the far side which we scaled and watched the precious golden disc descend behind the hills. I jumped off the edge of the steep dune because like old Jack said "you can't fall off the mountain." With that certainty always in mind my feet stuck into the duneside and I hopped down the rest of the way with Summer and guide beside. A foreign bed had never called my name so sweetly as on that night.
As we stood waiting to leave Chile in a dusty early morning street with a group of other gringos Pablo's trick revealed itself. Rule number one: never trust an overly eager friendship because more often than not money is at the foundation of the handshake. Pablo told us there would be no more than four people in the vessel we would be crossing the desert in (a Toyota Landcruiser), he told us we'd have a guide, and on top of it all he said he was coming with us. Through a puff from his immitation Marlboro he told us we were 14 people in the two trucks, there was no guide, and he had to stay behind for "business."
Meanwhile, two Austrians stood in the doorway of their hotel waiting for a ride that never got there, but Pablo said they were to be picked up. Others didn't bring water with them because Pablito said it was included, but it wasn't.
"It's all about money, ain't a damn thing funny." All this talk about bringing his drum and lots of booze was just a brotherly act of bullshit...
Nevertheless, in such situations a great bond is formed among a group of strangers who in this case intended to head into the high arid plateau with no regrets, bent on having a good time no matter what. Our trip was one of lakes in a dry desert plain, flamingos of all things and wildlife without trees, but mountains, minerals, and dust, plus a boiling mud geyser of no name- no way Pablito el hijo de mierda was going to ruin this trip...Summer and I just wanted to get to Bolivia we didn't know exactly what it would entail.
We rose up the paved road from the bottom of the Atacama desert leaving San Pedro behind looking like a long green gash in the hard skin of the dry Earth. We reached the border when the pavement turned to a dirt road and a little mud shack appeared with the Bolivian flag painted on the front. Outside stood a man in solid green army fatigues- the immigration officer no doubt. Pablo also failed to mention the entrance fee to the Bolivian national refuge, but the small unexpected tax couldn't take away from the impending adventure ahead- a new country, a new Spanish, a new, more indigenous culture, a new experience.
Across the road our sporty black Landcruiser awaited. There was a small man arranging equipment on the roof. This was Octavio, our driver. It's amazing how such a little man with such little talk can make such a strong and lovable impression. He was our driver, our guide, at times our cook, and as we found out later, the king of the road. Octavio had been doing this drive back and forth between Uyuni (our final destination) and San Pedro for 12 years practically every day like his father before him. It was one of those roads we were thankful not to have to go back on. He drives the gringos three days to Uyuni and then drives all night back to the border to pick up another group of gringitos to do the same thing- two such trips a week with one day rest, the same road, the same expressions and comments from seemingly the same white faces...our group would change the repetitious scene with silliness, warmth, and diverse blood: two Dutch, two Austrians, two Israelis, and two Americanos locos.
If you noticed before the total count of our group was 14 and there were two trucks, but of course everyone was in a couple. So, without thinking the situation through our car took on 8 people (+ Octavio) and went on our merry, squished way- three in the front, three in the middle, and three in the way way back. We were so excited for the road we didn't think of the hot, dusty, and cramped conditions, which for those of us in the middle didn't really matter, but for Summer and the two Israelis in the back it was a trial for certain. However, the unmistakeable and surprising beauty of our surroundings and the friendly company of our sardine can made up for the uncomfort, but then again I had an untinted window seat.
The first stop was Laguna Blanca and Laguna Verde (Laguna meaning shallow lake). There we saw our first group of flamingos along the trip, but they were far away and few in numbers compared to the throngs of pink vacationers we were soon to see coming from their far-off Carribean and Venezuelan homes. Los Flamencos are attracted to the rank-smelling, bacteria-packed, brilliantly-colored, shallow, stink-holes where they constantly filter the sludge through a long, black, umbrella-handle-looking beak. When we arrived the Laguna Verde, or Green Lake, appeared to be none other than a giant brown expanse of shallow salty water beneath the desolate Volcano Cabur, but as Octavio explained once the wind blew and excited all the lakes minerals it turned green. And right before our very little eyes the wind came up from the west and changed that brown drab ripple by ripple to a most magnificent turquoise-green, the likes of which I had never seen. That was the first sign of the wonder our trip was to perform for us.
Over the next two days we saw lakes of all colors: greens, blues, reds, oranges, yellows, and enough flamingos to eventually tell Octavio to keep on driving when
we saw another new flock. Vicuñas, wild herds of camelids, fed on virtually nothing in the vast plains of the high desert. The surrounding mountains would rise from the altiplano scrub-brush a dusty brown, but the richness of the soil bled through in iron rusts, copper greens, blues, and surely a little bit of
silver and gold to lighten the load. The state of Bolivia's wealth is often referred to as a donkey weighted down with many sacks of gold, a marvelous burden that it can't quite carry. That metaphor soon became apparent in the mineral rich soil along witht he poverty shown on all sides of the altiplano.
The first day we came upon a bubbling geyser of mud-clay which exemplified some of the unharnessed energy the country possessed, as well as the lack of safety
precautions as we ventured around the boiling widow-makers and watched the dance of flying mud figures in the air. Volcanoes marched along the road with us as if this was a place where the earth was still in the making and not yet giving into
erosion and deterioration. Stone islands and pillars of rock, sometimes forming rock trees, were left from acient lava flows and yet newer flows resembling frozen waves were stretched out in an empty sea of desolation.
Octavio drove on and that first day we rose to heights of over 15,000 feet. One guy from our group was feeling ill, but all the rest of us hung in there. Our first night was in a cold wind swept valley on the edge of Laguna Colorada (Red
Lake) where plates of salt appeared like icebergs out of the lake, and our beds were like hammocks with springs. Tea full of coca leaves helped with the altitude- the first of the leaves that I had tried.
Our second night was in the proper town of San Juan where we could drink beer in
the local discotec, which was openned just for the benefit of the gringos since
the town was pinner in size. The third day, however, was what we were all
waiting for...The Salar de Uyuni- the largest salt flat in the world. Many San
Francisco Bay Areas could easily fit inside the great expanse of the dry white
sea. Salt as far as you could see in all directions once in the middle of it. It
was the result of a large inland sea that lay atop the altiplano in prehistoric
times. Now, once riding on the vast flatness of the salt it seems as if you are
flying in a plane. All it would take would be some angles walking about to make
it seem like somekind of heaven- large, puffy, white clouds on the horizon.
We stopped for odd photos in the void. We visited salt mounds dug up and
harvested to be sold around Bolivia. We bought candy inside of a hotel
constucted completely out of salt blocks, where you can actually rent a room,
sleep on a salt bed (with blankets of wool), sit in salt chairs, and play salt
chess. The stangest of all was the Isla de los Pescadores, a small island in the
middle of the salt emptiness. A surreal island of life demonstrating that in the
absolute middle of nothing life can bloom. Cacti that are thousands of years old
bloom with yellow and pink flowers, rabbit-like vizcachas hide in the rocks,
birds come to sing, and out beyond not even a speck of green can be seen from a
plane.
Finally we crossed the Salar and rode the last dusty washboard road to the town
of Uyuni where we ate pizza and drank beers and expressed our amazement with
other gringos who had just experienced that same strange salty phenomenon.
Bolivia was a definite change from Chile in just the price of a beer. The
bargains were a welcome change, but the indigenous blood that ran thick through
the people confirmed that we had arrived in the true heart of South America. We
soon went in search of the roots of la indigena and the roots of the conquest of
New Spain. Much of Bolivia remains unchanged after hundreds and even thousands
of years...
From the windward port of San Francisco to...
:::::::::::::::::CHILE::::::::::::::::
My little nephew Christopher was attempting to walk on his own in the
airport cafe where Mom and Dad said goodbye to Summer and me that grey Frisco
Monday morning, 21st of October. I knew i#22727; see him walking when i returned
some undetermined number of months later- still undetermined while i write this
three weeks into the trip. It all depends on how long i end up teaching English
in Recife, Brasil. Summer will be with me until early January traveling up the
west coast of South America by way of Chile, Bolivia, Peru, el Rio Amazonas to
Brasil...Salvador, Bahia for New Year#30196;. Come on down- the water will be
warm.
I write now from San Pedro de Atacama in the north of Chile- a
mud-brick, spring-spawned, lush oasis in the middle of the Atacama desert, where
they claim it never rains and Volcano Lican Cabur stands watch...
It was a long flight from Atlanta, but well worth it the minute the
first rays of sunshine hit the arid, rugged landscape beneath us. Mountains and
desert run into the sea slowly giving way to patches of green in the valleys
where vineyards run toward Santiago. The great city itself dwarfed by enormous
snow-capped peaks literally jutting out of the valley floor, straight up-- Land,
Stamped, and In...every man wears a suit. I knew i forgot to pack something...
Turtle-backed with ruck sacks and me with a blue guitar, we bussed
into the city and shacked-up in a funky little recidencia in Barrio Brasil, the
"bohemian" part of the city. We spent three days there in a dark
little room with a window looking onto the hallway. But, it had it#30196; own
ba#12539;, hot water, cable TV, and a notice on the door that it had been
fumigated...somewhat recently. The sheets were clean, but i didn#31258; want to
roll around in the blankets. The place probably hadn#31258; changed for decades,
especially the old, velvet easy-chair near the door-- That#30196; what i love
about Latin America! It still has a similar feel now as it had years and years
ago.
We spent hours covering the city all three days. Our hood, Barrio
Brasil, was typical of most of Santiago that surrounded the nicer areas near the
center of the city. It was filled with peeling, pastel painted 19th century
buildings and concrete-- Dogs wander the streets, busses spout black fumes,
everything closes for siesta time, men enjoy cold beer all day, juvenile
graffiti says someone#30196; in love or the government sucks, and no one ever
has change. Latin America i love you!....i can walk through your green
sanctuaries outside the busy financial district and drink a cafecito in the
heart of the city, soaking up the distinct flavor of city-culture-- in this case
Santiago, Chile, where the people are very serious, and love family, God, and
f#21469;bol.
It's not much of a tourist city, but plenty to keep you busy the
deeper you get. We didn#31258; stay long, but long enough to enjoy views from
ajoining hillsides of the magnificent magnitude of the valley, the funky modern skyscrapers with centuries-old Spanish architecture side-by-side, the steaks with papas fritas, and the resistance of some local kids to the police in a random riot-cito in the plaza of Las Armas. It#30196; all good down
here, but the people like to be in control of their government. We find the
people to be so serious all the time, although they are genuinely nice folk...a reminder of the oppressive Pinochet society-cleanser and economic-booster that
left people afraid of their government-- but times are changing.
Coming from San Francisco we didn#31258; intend to stay long in another big city. We bought bus tickets south to the Chilean lake district. A
paradise on earth- pristine lakes brushed up with virgin forests and prehistoric-looking coned volcanoes which smolder and smoke through the snow.
We went to Puc#12539;...
